Chapter Text
“And there we have it! Shane Hollander! Bringing home 210 points for Ravenclaw–six textbook goals from Hayden and the Chasers, plus that incredible lightning-fast Snitch grab–beating Slytherin out of their home-run this year!”
A crowd of dark blue coats with raven logos on their chest scream, excitement roaring in the air of the pitch. Banners of the house are unfurled, snapping and standing proudly under the dashing winds of July. Summer had just hit, and a new chapter was starting for the young, hopeful quidditch team of Ravenclaw.
“Shane! You fucker-!” J.J shouted, eyes beaming with shock and pride. He flies to where Shane’s broom is, hitting his back hard. Shane grunts softly. The sting from the hit lingers, yet his heart beats quickly in his chest. The crowd’s chant rolls over him like a crashing wave–Hol-lan-der! Hol-lan-der! Hol-lan-der!–mixed with the brassy blare of house trumpets ringing loudly. He’d done it. He’d fucking done it. They’d done it. Their sweat-soaked robes, bruised ribs, endless strategy sessions in the Ravenclaw’s library tower. All worth it. Fucking worth the price.
He’d won. Ravenclaw had finally brought a trophy home after a decade.
He couldn’t have been more proud of his team. They had worked hard, sweating buckets in the training ground every afternoon, strategizing every possible way to win, and here, in his beloved school, they had won it for the name of their house.
His teammates swarmed him mid-air, a buzzing hive of brooms and proud grins. They chanted his name, his title, chests heaving with pride and gratitude. Their captain had finally delivered the untouchable win.
Yet, even as hands clapped his shoulders and voices shouted congratulations and praises, Shane’s gaze drifted across the pitch. Past the celebrating blue, past the sullen green of defeated Slytherin packing up. It landed on him.
Ilya Rozanov.
His enemy. Still hovering at the edge of the chaos, broom held loosely, blonde curls tousled by the wind and damp with sweat. The sunlight caught him just right–those curls framing a face carved like some ancient Greek statue walking straight out of a fantasy, all sharp jaw and lazy confidence. He meets Shane’s eyes for half a second. Smirks, then turns away, as if the loss meant nothing.
Shane’s stomach twists. He averts his gaze. He concentrates his focus on the celebration of his teammates. He should stay here, in the greenish field–basking in his house’s victory. Instead, heat crawls up his neck that has nothing to do with the warm summer air.
He failed.
Between the roar of the crowd and the chants of his teammates. Shane felt strangely lost. He didn’t even remember when Rozanov had texted him, or how he’d ended up back in his room after being told by Rozanov that he would come five minutes later. Now, he was just waiting.
“Take off your clothes, Hollander,” Ilya growled, pinning the Ravenclaw captain against the wall. Shane should be thankful they were in his dorm room – each student had their personal, private dorm and his was tucked away in a small corner far from the common's room. Ilya must have snuck in under that damned invisibility cloak, his hands fumbling against Shane’s shirt with desperate urgency, he threw it off onto the hardwood floor after succeeding on taking it off Shane’s body.
Ilya's hands gripped Shane's thighs–hoisting him up effortlessly and carrying him towards the bedroom. He kicks the door shut with a harsh thud, his mouth crashing against Shane’s in a devouring, desperate kiss, falling into the sweet temptation. “Hollander, fuck-”
Their tongues warred with each other, fierce and unyielding. Shane grips Ilya tighter, switching their position in a swift twist, and crashes his lips back on Ilya's. Now on top, Shane helped tug Ilya's shirt free, fingers brushing against the hot skin as the fabric slipped away.
“Fuck me, Rozanov,” Shane breathed, shameless and wrecked, his lips trembling with lust.
Ilya was good at a lot of things. Quidditch, for one–he flew like he owned the pitch, dodging bludgers with that infuriating smirk that made the girls swoon over. He was on top of DADA in his year, the whole batch were whispering on how he counters curses like they were child's play. And he was good in bed, too, though Shane wouldn't shamelessly admit that to his rival's face. Not when it meant admitting those heated glares and arrogant smirk did something to him.
And this–making Shane forget every rule, every rivalry, every reason they shouldn’t be with each other. Every plausible reason they shouldn’t be crashing their lips together as if they needed each other like oxygen.
Afterward, the room smells of sex and cedar from the enchanted wardrobe. It smells like Ilya, only for a little. A warm tobacco scent, mixed with dried fruits and spice filled Shane’slungs. There’s just a hint of the sweet vanilla smell Ilya’s skin offered.
“Still sore?” The Russian asked, gathering his clothes and quickly slipping them on with ease. Shane can’t lie – Ilya's body is truly sculpted by some Greek god who favored him. Those defined V-lines that traced down his lower stomach and obliques, firm arches of muscle showing more prominently when he stretched.
“Fuck you,” the words slipped past his lips. “The guards are patrolling tonight.”
“Yeah, such a good trick,” Ilya stated, as he pressed his lips against Shane. Soft, lingering. Ilya couldn't help it — Shane was dressed in a dark blue hoodie with the hood over his head, some grey sweatpants he probably had prepared before Ilya came over. He looked soft, content.
He takes his jacket from Shane's hold, wrapping it around his shoulder and fixing it slightly to fit his frame. Shane leaned against the wall, his eyes droopy, tired after making out.
“Later…” Ilya draped the cloak over his shoulder, half of his body was invisible under it. With one last glance and eye contact, Ilya pulls the hood over and turns the doorknob. In an instant, he vanished.
Basking in the moment, Shane rested his head against the wall. His lips quivered, letting out small gasps to calm himself.
That shouldn’t be good, he thought, I should stop whatever this is.
He ran his fingers through his hair, groaning softly as the images of Ilya pinning him down resurfaced. Cheeks burned a rosy color, his teeth sank into his bottom lip.
“Good doll.”
The hoarse whisper surfaced in his mind.
“Pretty, pretty for me.”
The sound of a moan came uninvited, replaying shamelessly in his head.
“Fucking prettiest doll, Hollander.”
He shook his head. He should stop it before his mind turns into mush.
Distant cheers echoed from downstairs. The rest of his team were probably celebrating their win with some alcohol and cheap snacks. As their captain, he should join them. Shane doesn't like partying. He prefers to sit on his bed, read whatever is on his Kindle and do his 10-step skincare routine.
His phone rang with a new notification.
Lily: Still sore? :-)
His fingers reflexively hovered around the keyboard, typing in a familiar answer.
Jane: Fuck you 🖕
He sets the phone aside. Tomorrow: Potions at eight in the morning, library run for that Aritmancy essay in the afternoon, Mum’s package from Ottawa waiting at the Owlery. But right now, the ache in his thighs and the ghost of Ilya’s kiss are enough to lull him to slumber.
He closed his eyes. Sleep comes easy for once.